Can You See My Pain
by Anonymoustache
Summary: John and Sherlock have finally started a relationship together. However, there's something that Sherlock isn't telling his partner; something that happens on almost a daily basis, something that hurts him more than anything. Will Sherlock ever let John in? And can they find a way to make this new relationship work?
1. Words Can't Kill (But They Can Hurt)

"Oi, freak!"

Sherlock didn't bother turning around. "Sally, your vocabulary is sadly limited. Perhaps I should purchase you a dictionary for Christmas, if I actually bothered enough to get you anything, which I won't."

Sally rolled her eyes. "No one cares what you bother with, freak." She slammed a file down on the table. "Here's the paperwork for the Brower case. Inspector Lestrade said to have it filled out before you leave or there'll be hell to pay."

Sherlock still didn't move, completely focused on the cold case that was spread on the table before him. "I might. Now Sally, do leave, you're putting me off."

A new voice butted in. "That's not her. You're just naturally like that, freak."

Sherlock sighed. "Anderson. Come to join the party, I see. Maybe I should buy you a dictionary as well."

Anderson snarled. "Shut up, freak. No one likes you."

Sherlock said nothing, mainly because he was suddenly unsure. But, they couldn't tell that; surely not, he thought. They weren't smart enough.

However, in the area of insults, Sherlock wasn't giving the two quite enough credit. He certainly didn't see what was coming next.

"You know what? I was in the coffee room today with the army doctor. You know what he said to the inspector? He said he hates your guts, Sherlock." Anderson was positively gleeful. "Now do you think that anyone really likes you?" Sherlock was motionless. It's just words, he thought. Just words, nothing more. Words can't hurt you.

Sally started in, encouraged by Anderson's success. "You're such a freak, Sherlock. Everyone says it. Everyone knows it. You're a freak who gets off on crime scenes." She sneered. "You're nothing. You're not even that _smart_."

Sherlock stood up abruptly and staggered towards the door. "You are wrong," he rasped, uneasy in every sense of the word. "John loves me." Sherlock could have cursed at himself. He and John had been in a relationship for some time now, it was true; but they hadn't yet agreed to go public.

Anderson guffawed. "You think John _loves_ you?" He and Sally both began to laugh uproariously. "You're so stupid, freak."

Sherlock darted out the door as fast as he could. He could still hear their laughter as he reached the stairwell.

As he was running down the stairs, he saw Greg walking up. "Hey, Sherlock." He said cheerfully. "Just sent Sally up with those documents, have you gotten them…Sherlock?" Sherlock ran right past him, not acknowledging the inspector at all.

Greg turned and watched the tall man darting away. Had he been crying? No, this was Sherlock; it couldn't have been. Still, this made Greg uneasy. Sherlock had looked so…broken-hearted. He shook his head and laughed at himself. Sherlock, broken-hearted? He needed a vacation.

Sherlock ran down the street, not bothering for a cab. He was five blocks from Baker Street when the rain started, and two blocks when it began to thunder and lightning. He could see the flat, just across the street, when strong hands pulled him into the alleyway behind him.

…

John sighed, looking up at the clock. His gaze drifted to the kitchen table; he had cleaned it, and set it with dishes and Chinese takeaway, Sherlock's favorite. Sherlock had told him, no, promised him, that he would be home tonight so that they could have a real, actual meal together.

John should have known that it wouldn't happen like that. He had known when he started this whole relationship with Sherlock that things weren't going to change that much; Sherlock would still complain and not eat or sleep and keep strange body parts in the refrigerator. Just today John had visited Greg to go over some details on one of Sherlock's recent cases and ended up regaling him in the coffee room with tales of the human guts that Sherlock had brought home and put in the toaster.

He picked up the dishes, probably making more noise than was necessary, and finally ended up in his room, with his laptop and a plate of cold sesame chicken, watching an old episode of Doctor Who. He didn't know where Sherlock was, or what he was doing, but dammit, if the man wasn't even going to bother to text him when he had a change of plans he didn't care where he was.

John ended up falling asleep halfway through the credits, oblivious to the quiet moaning coming from the door downstairs.


	2. I Don't Cry (You Broke The Lock)

_Forty-five minutes earlier_

"Alright, precious, put your hands behind your back unless you want a pretty little shiner on one o' them nice eyes o' yours."

Sherlock took stock of the situation at hand. Dark alley, no one nearby, no weapons, no possible escape. He sighed. "A mugging. Oh, how droll."

He felt the man behind him shift and a sudden punch to his abdomen took his breath away. So there were two of them. Stupid, stupid Sherlock. Why hadn't he seen that coming? Donovan and Anderson were right; he wasn't that smart.

"Now, pretty boy, I don't think you remember us." The man said in a sugared voice. "Let's have us a look-see."

He twisted Sherlock around painfully so that he could see the men's faces. Both had brown hair, sparse, with bright green eyes. They had looks of equal malice and justice on their faces, and appeared to be identical. Oh, yes, Sherlock remembered them.

"The Gentry twins. Of course. Liam and Loam Gentry." He sneered, sarcasm being the only defense he had left. "How could I forgot two unintelligent buffoons like you?"

Another punch. Sherlock wheezed. This was not going well.

One of the twins leaned in. Which one was it? Sherlock shook his head, swimming through waves of pain. His mind went into overdrive and he spotted the small, purple-brown mole on the side of the man's left earlobe. Loam, then.

"Wallet's in left…no, right coat pocket." How had he forgotten which was which side? He groaned as Liam stepped forward and pulled his coat off, not taking the wallet or anything else, just tossing it aside. Loam tore Sherlock's shirt off with a sharp, wickedly gleaming knife, throwing it over by his coat.

"S'not your wallet we want, mate." Loam said as his brother cracked his knuckles ominously. "We just want to give you a little gift for the five years you gave us in the slammer." Liam handed him a length of rope, which Loam used to tie Sherlock to a strong metal pipe on the wall of the building next to the men.

Loam gestured grandly to the consulting detective's tied body. "Would you like the first go, brother dear?"

Liam grinned maliciously. "Very much, brother dear."

Over the next thirty minutes (to Sherlock it felt like forever) they viciously beat him, using fists, a club, a sharp metal crowbar, a knife, even a lead pipe they found in the gutter nearby. Finally, they seemed to tire. Loam picked up his coat and ruined shirt and took them down the alleyway towards Baker Street, placing them at the beginning where they were sure to be found.

"We'll be back. Don't think we're gone forever, because we owe you five years of prison beatings, Mr. Holmes." He winked. "See you soon."

And with those last ominous words the two brothers disappeared down the alley.

Sherlock moaned. He pulled at his bonds, trying desperately to ignore the shooting pains all over his body. He leaned back into the cold metal of the pipe, deciding that escape in his current state was impossible, and that the best he could do was to make a list of his injuries.

He wished he hadn't. Just thinking about all of it made him hurt worse.

He had a spectacular black eye, a long cut on his cheek, and a rather painful split lip. They had sliced his collarbone very precisely; not enough to kill, but enough to be extremely painful. He did his best to peer down at his torso, his neck held tight to the pipe by the rope. In the dark of the alleyway it was hard to see, but even in the half-light from a far-away streetlamp he could see that his chest and abdomen were a canvas of spectacularly colored bruises, standing out against the pale alabaster white of his skin. They had left him a long, painful cut along the side of his ribs as a reminder. It traveled from the right middle of his rib cage all the way down his hip, cutting through his trousers. It wasn't deep enough to require serious medical attention; John would be able to stitch him up.

John. He groaned, this time not in physical pain but mental. He was supposed to meet John for dinner tonight. He knew the army doctor had been very much looking forward to having a sit-down dinner with Sherlock at Baker Street. Sherlock had been rather inclined towards it, himself. This relationship stuff was difficult for him, and he was fairly sure that having this proper dinner with John would help the man to realize Sherlock did, truly, care for him.

However, now he would miss it and John would be angry. Sherlock had missed yet another chance to make John happy.

He felt something wet on his face. It must be raining, he thought. But then Sherlock realized the raindrops were coming from his own eyes. He scoffed at himself inside his head. _Look at you_, he thought, _you're so weak. You are beaten and laughed at and called a freak, and you cry. Crying is for normal people; you are above that._

Sherlock knew those words. He could picture his brother at the age of seventeen, just before he left for university. An older boy had beaten Sherlock up while a crowd of children looked on, laughing and jeering and calling him names. Sherlock had run to Mycroft when he got home; Mycroft was always there to comfort him with soft words and hugs. But when he got there, Mycroft had friends over; friends he would be going to uni with, friends who didn't like his younger brother, who thought Sherlock was a freak. And Mycroft had been torn. His friends, or his brother?

Sherlock could still hear the words ringing in his head. _Go away, Sherlock. Go cry somewhere else, freak._

He had not cried since. He had been seven years old.

He had locked away emotions and tears and love in a room at the back of his mind palace, where spiderwebs and self-doubt thrived.

And somehow, John had been able to unlock the door. He didn't understand it, not at all. It was hard for Sherlock to understand his love for John, when all the feelings that he despised had been locked away for twenty-nine long, cold years.

He couldn't do this. John had broken the dam, but while love flooded out, so did all those times, those words, the tears he had shut away. If the lock was still intact, he wouldn't have cried when Donovan and Anderson said those things. He would have shoved them in and locked them up, never to see them again.

It began to rain, water droplets pounding on his skull, washing away the tears. His head ached, his chest ached, everything ached.

He was alone.


	3. You Found Me (I Still Hear Them)

John woke up to a strange noise. Someone (or something) was scratching at the door to the flat. He slid out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, pulling on one of Sherlock's old t-shirts that he had left in John's room during a rather heated make-out session. He opened the door and found himself looking down at a small, furry brown dog, yapping and clawing at the floor.

John crouched down, relieved that it hadn't been anything serious. "Hey, boy," he said, "Who's dog are you?"

He took the dog into his arms and absentmindedly petted it while walking down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled. He knocked on her door, not an easy feat when one is holding a squirming dog.

She answered the door on the second knock. "Hello, John dear!" she said cheerfully. "Did Sherlock ever get back last night?"

John shook his head. "No. The bastard didn't even call. I had dinner ready and everything."

She shook her head regretfully. "The road to love is a rocky one, dearie." She spotted the dog. "Well, hello, Turnip!"

John looked up. "You know this dog?" he said, frowning.

She nodded. "Why, yes, dear!" she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "This is Mrs. Turner's dog; you know, she has the married ones I was telling you about. You and Sherlock should visit them, John dear…I think they'd be a very good influence."

John cut her off. "Yes, I'm sure, but why was the dog outside our flat?"

Mrs. Hudson clucked, concerned. "The little thing must have wandered over last night." She took John's hand. "John, do be a dear and run him back over, will you? Just quickly! And I made some lovely cranberry-orange loaves yesterday, there's some left for you and Sherlock!"

John nodded. "Alright, I'll take him." Good thing today was John's day off.

He took the dog all the way back up to the flat, letting him chew on some kind of experiment that Sherlock was doing with bones (at the moment he didn't give a damn if Sherlock's experiment was ruined, he was so mad at the man) and searched around for a pair of trousers.

Eventually he found a pair of relatively clean plaid pyjama pants, save for one burn hole in the lower leg. He wasn't quite sure how that had gotten there, though he had a sinking suspicion that it had something to do with Sherlock's colored flame experiment. He pulled them on over his boxers and, picking up the dog (what had Mrs. Hudson called him? Turnip? Turnip Turner…what a name, he thought), headed out the door.

An hour later, having returned the dog and been given a cake and several chicken legs for rescuing 'my little snookums' as Mrs. Turner called him, he exited the building, deciding that a nice cup of tea wouldn't go too badly with the cold poultry and a slice of the cake. Walking towards the crosswalk, he almost slipped on a piece of gray material that had been discarded on the sidewalk. He looked down and frowned. Why did that rag remind him so much of Sherlock? He picked it up and examined it. It wasn't a rag; it was a shirt. A nice shirt, at that; Spencer Hart, by the slightly ripped tag. Didn't Sherlock have a shirt like this?

John sighed and set it on some boxes near the end of a nearby alleyway. He needed to stop seeing the man everywhere. Yes, they were…what did they call what they were? Partners? Boyfriends? _Lovers_? Anyways, he needed to get a life besides Sherlock. The man obviously didn't care that much.

…

Greg hung up the phone and sighed. A lead on that new case, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He remembered last night, when he had seen Sherlock rushing out of the Yard, seemingly crying. He had put it down to his own self working too hard that day; Sherlock didn't cry. But, was he sure?

He grabbed his coat from the rack. He didn't have time for contemplation right now. The lead, involving a case where the beatings and subsequent murders occurred in a dark alleyway at exactly twelve oh four on the third of each month, had led him, coincidentally, to an alleyway just across from Baker Street. Neighbors had spoken of a disturbance, and he hoped they weren't too late; this would make the third victim if they were.

They arrived at the alleyway earlier than Greg thought they would; Sally was a quick driver, and Greg was not quite sure that she was an altogether safe one. He called for backup and left Anderson to get forensics ready to collect evidence if they found anything back there.

No matter how many times Greg tried, he couldn't erase the picture of what they found when they went in.

Sherlock was tied with heavy rope to a long metal pipe, beaten, bruised, and bloody. He was unconscious, his hair matted with dried blood, and his mouth was hanging slack.

"Sherlock!" Greg yelled. "Oh my God…Sally, go run across the street as fast as you can and get John Watson. Quick! Now!"

Sally ran towards the crosswalk, only to see John walking towards her from the opposite direction.

"Sally, what is it?" he asked, oblivious to the bad news she bore. "I came over to talk to Greg; Sherlock didn't come home last night, and I didn't know if he'd seen him…"

Sally let out a stream of words. "John…he's hurt, he might be dead, he's tied up and beaten really badly, you have to come help, he might be dead, oh God, the freak might be dead…"

John's face went white. He shoved past Sally and ran down the alleyway, screaming Sherlock's name.

He found Greg leaning over a body. _Oh, God, Sherlock, please don't be dead, please don't be dead, don't do this…_He stopped near them, out of breath. "Greg!" he yelled, despite the fact that he was right next to him. He knelt down and took Sherlock into his lap, checking for a pulse.

There was one. It was faint, but there. _Thank God. _Sherlock was alive.

"John…John…" he felt Greg shaking his shoulder. "Is he alright? Does he need the hospital?"

John shook his head. "Yes…he's going to be just fine." He looked up. "And you know what he's like; the hospital would be a nightmare. If you'll help me we can just take him back to the flat, get him into our room, I can patch him up…"

Greg raised his eyebrows at the phrase 'our room', but said nothing. He would press it later. "Right. Well, let's not waste time, then."

Between the two of them, with an anxious Sally looking on, they hauled him carefully onto his feet and across the road. Once inside the flat, they met Mrs. Hudson. John mentally groaned. She would make a scene, of course.

However, he underestimated Martha Hudson's bedside manner.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…" she sighed. "What have you done now?" she gently patted John's shoulder. "I'll bring up some soup later, John dear."

They half-carried, half-dragged the tall man up the stairs, and laid him down gently on the bed in Sherlock's room. Greg stood, turned towards the door, and promptly slipped on a bottle of lube that had been carelessly tossed on the bedroom floor. John started and helped the inspector up, blushing profusely.

"Erm, sorry, Greg…It was…It was an experiment of Sherlock's…and, well…I really have no idea why it's there, none at all…" he babbled on, trying to make an excuse for himself.

Greg looked up at the army doctor, eyes twinkling. "'Our room', eh?" he laughed heartily. "I hope Sherlock feels better. I'll send him over some of our cold cases later this week." Greg exited, carefully watching the floor for any more awkward objects that might be tripped upon.

John patched Sherlock up as best he could, spreading salve on his cuts and bruises and carefully stitching up the slice along his collarbone. He gulped as he got to the cut on Sherlock's hip. He gently tugged off Sherlock's trousers, inspecting the damage. Thankfully, it hadn't cut too close to anything to be an immediate danger, and it didn't need stitches. He gently washed it with the antiseptic solution and put a thin, flexible plaster over it. He didn't take Sherlock's pants off, just reached the plaster through; the man should still have something left of his dignity, even though John had seen it all before.

Sherlock woke up sometime that night, John dozing next to him on the bed. He awoke with a scream. "No, no more, please!" he yelled hoarsely…and then realized where he was. John was awake by this point. He gently grabbed his partner.

"Shhh, Sherlock. Calm down. You're home, with me. You're fine, those men are never going to hurt you again. Shh…" John spoke quietly, comforting Sherlock with whispered words and tender kisses. Sherlock quieted and relaxed into John's arms.

John didn't know that the beating wasn't what Sherlock had been dreaming of.


	4. They Hate Me (Don't Send Me Away)

_Two Weeks Later_

Sherlock entered Scotland Yard in his usual flamboyant manner, followed closely by John. He headed directly for Greg's office; the inspector had promised him a fresh case when he was fully recovered, and a serial killer had started a string of murders just two days ago. Sherlock was ecstatic, to say the least.

Sherlock turned to John just before he entered. "Black, two sugars, no milk, be back in five minutes. Oh, and get yourself something from the vending machine." He handed John some change. "You look like you could eat the building."

And with that Sherlock had opened the door and darted into the office, closing it swiftly behind him. John chuckled. Typical Sherlock; always in control, never asking or doubting.

John had no idea.

As soon as Sherlock entered that office, all his worst nightmares came true; Sally Donovan was sitting in Greg's chair, sipping a mug of tea and looking extremely smug. Anderson was splayed on a chair nearby, acting like he owned the place.

"Hey, freak!" Sally said sarcastically. "How's your _brilliant _intellect after that brutal smashing you took?"

Sherlock clenched his fists. "Where's Lestrade?"

Sally grinned. "Didn't you hear? He's going to be gone for over two months; some family emergency or something." She smiled devilishly. "I'm in charge for approximately sixty-one days."

Sherlock glared at her. "So?" he said coldly. "Take me to the bodies, if you please, Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson snorted. "You don't really _think_ she's going to do that, do you, freak?"

Sherlock turned on the man lounging in the chair. "Anderson, please shut that obnoxious hole in your face that is unfortunately your mouth. On a scale of smart things that you say, you rate lower than slime mold."

Sally grinned maliciously. "Freak, I hereby ban you from ever coming to a crime scene to assist again."

That one sentence took Sherlock's breath away. "W-what?" he gasped. "You can't do that. How many cases do you think you would solve, without _me_? Besides the fact that you are only temporary; Lestrade won't uphold."

She kept that grin on her face. "Lestrade said to me when he left that any decisions I make are final, and will be _upheld_." She stood up and leaned in towards him. "You. Are. Through."

Anderson stood up, and together he and Sally backed Sherlock towards the door, hurling insults at him. "Freak! Weirdo! Go away, Sherlock, no one wants you here, freak!"

Sherlock ran.

He ran out and down the hall and barreled right into John, spilling the two coffees he held in his hands. John gasped as the hot liquid spread down the front of his jumper. "Sherlock, what…?"

Sherlock was breathing heavily. He braced himself against the wall. "It's over, John." He could feel hot tears spiking the edge of his vision. "It's over."

And Sherlock ran.

John would remember for years to come the look of utter defeat on Sherlock's face.

…

After Sherlock ran out, Donovan and Anderson high-fived.

"Excellent work, Temporary Detective Inspector Donovan!" Anderson said, giving her a mock bow.

Sally struggled to keep her face stern. "And you, Temporary Sergeant Anderson!" she said in her best leader voice. They looked at each other and dissolved into laughter.

"The look on his face! It was priceless, Sal!" Anderson gasped. "He seriously thought Lestrade was gone for two months."

"I know!" Sally squealed in a much too high-pitched voice. "He's just late for work is all…and the great consulting detective couldn't even figure that out!"

They laughed for a good hour until Greg finally arrived, with a black eye and his estranged wife throwing a fit outside as he locked the door behind him.

…

John climbed the stairs wearily. Sherlock had run all the way back to the flat, John following closely behind in a cab. As he entered, he saw that the door to Sherlock's room-_their _room-was shut. He gently knocked on the door. "Sherlock?" he sighed. "Sherlock, I'm coming in."

He entered to find Sherlock facing the opposite wall, staring at nothing. He carefully sat down on the edge of their bed and rubbed a hand across the consulting detective's back. "Oh, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned around, pushing his body against John, and began to cry into John's soft jumper. John leaned himself and Sherlock back against the pillows, running a hand through Sherlock's inky black curls. "It's okay, let it all out, you're fine, you're going to be fine, I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here…" Sherlock drew a hand across his face, drying the tears.

John gently laid a hand across Sherlock's chest in an intimate manner. "If you need to talk, Sherlock…well, I'm here for you, okay?" he said quietly, knowing that this was _Sherlock bloody Holmes, _who prided himself on not having emotions. But somehow, the consulting detective, John's own Sherlock, was crying, and John was going to find out why if it took all the kisses and love and comfort in the world.


	5. I Feel Fine (Let's Take Them Down)

_Sherlock stood just outside the yellow tape lines, watching as Lestrade stood at the crime scene, trying to gather evidence._

_"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. "I'm here! I'm here to help!" _

_Lestrade turned, and Sherlock found himself face to face with someone who was not Lestrade. I was Sally Donovan. Sherlock saw her eyes shining with a cold light. "Go away, freak. Nobody wants you here anymore."_

_Suddenly Sally Donovan and Anderson were there beside the inspector, laughing at Sherlock as he slipped and fell on a patch of ice he hadn't seen. He didn't understand why, but he began to cry. The two of them mocked him viciously, giggling and chortling as he tried desperately to stand._

Sherlock woke up, eyes wide, sweating and panting.

He rolled over, stifling a groan when he saw John lying next to him, fast asleep. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and he looked exhausted. The good army doctor had obviously been up most of the night watching over him, patching him up from…from…

Sherlock frowned. No, there hadn't been anything to patch him up from.

"Sherlock?!" was the first word he spoke; or rather, screamed. He was obviously very worried about the man. Sherlock smiled and felt a warm feeling in his chest that only John could produce.

John relaxed when he saw Sherlock lying next to him. "Oh, Sherlock." He put his arms carefully around the consulting detective, and Sherlock allowed himself to be drawn into a hug.

"John…what is it?" he said. "What happened to me?"

John shook his head, curiosity lighting his gaze. "I don't know." he said carefully. "You just…you ran out of Scotland Yard faster than Mycroft running away from a diet."

The last part made Sherlock smile. "Mycroft runs faster when you put cake at the finish line."

The two of them spent a good five minutes laughing. Sherlock needed it, desperately.

John quieted. "So…really, Sherlock. What happened?" he asked Sherlock softly.

Sherlock sighed, willing himself to hold back any emotion, to lock it all away, as he explained in a monotone voice. "Sally Donovan has been put in as temporary chief inspector while Lestrade is away on family business. She refuses to let me have cases, and furthermore has banned me from any future ones, which she seems quite sure Lestrade will comply with."

John frowned. "But Greg called not long after you fell asleep yesterday morning. He was there, at the Yard…wanted to know where you were…"

The two partners looked at each other in astonishment and shock.

John's eyes darkened, and he let out what sounded like a growl. "That…that utter bint! I swear, Sherlock, the minute you feel up to it, I am marching down to Scotland Yard and giving that _bloody _minger a piece of my mind."

Sherlock drew himself up, somehow managing to look impressively intimidating even when in a bed wrapped in a sheet. "John," he said menacingly, "I feel up to it right now."


	6. You Were Too (We're Both The Freak)

Greg was just finishing his morning cup of coffee when he spotted Sherlock and John coming in the door towards his office. He walked out into the hallway, followed by Donovan and Anderson, who had been waiting for his signature on the last forensics report. It seemed like those two were always hovering, he thought, frowning.

He approached them, grinning. "Morning, Sherlock!" he said cheerfully. "Where were you yesterday? Had a really interesting one for you; what with the serial killer and all, thought you would've been down here faster than anything!"

Sherlock stopped and waited as John stormed forward, right past Greg and towards Donovan and Anderson.

He shoved Anderson violently backwards and, while the man was squirming on the floor trying to get up, backed Donovan up against the wall.

"John, what the bloody hell are you doing!" Greg shouted, thinking that living with Sherlock had finally, finally taken it's toll on John's mind.

John didn't move. He stared up at Donovan, a fierce fire in his gaze. "What you did was not right, and you know it, you twat." he said in a cold, calm voice that oozed danger. "You leave Sherlock alone from now on, or I swear I will _end _you." he smiled coldly. "Understand?"

Donovan laughed, an unexpected response. She looked over at Sherlock mockingly. "Are you this weak, freak? So weak that you have to have a bigger, stronger friend stand up for you? I didn't think you could ever sink to this level of pathetic, but I guess you have now."

John did something he would never, ever come to regret, not once.

John punched Sergeant Sally Donovan directly in the face.

She fell back against the wall, unintended tears leaking out of her eyes. She glared up at John with a watery gaze. "You'll regret that, Doctor Watson. I'll get you charged with assaulting an officer." she glared at him, and spoke the next words with zeal. "You will be _done_."

"No, he won't."

John looked up. Greg was standing tall beside him, staring down at his Sergeant with sympathy in his features. "Sally, what you've done to Sherlock; what you've _been _doing to Sherlock all along; it isn't acceptable behavior for a police officer of your rank." He sighed. "You're an invaluable member of the force, Donovan, but if you try to pin John with an assault charge I'll be forced to pin you with a harassment of a civilian charge."

Sally gaped. "You…you can't do that."

Greg continued. "Which, of course, would result in your immediate removal from the force and no doubt a…relocation to a less desirable position from a certain small but powerful segment of the British Government that I know _personally_."

"You can hardly call Mycroft 'small'." Sherlock muttered, smirking.

Sally looked down at her feet, crying for real now. Then, Sherlock did something that was completely out of character, something shocking, something that everyone in the room would remember for days, months, even years to come.

Sherlock stepped forward and offered Sally his hand.

She looked up at him through her tears, questioningly. "W-why?" she asked softly. "I've been so…so stupid, so mean. Why would you help me up?"

Sherlock looked straight into her eyes. "Because you know how I feel. It's how you felt for much of your childhood. The outsider. The loner. The _freak_."

A small sound, like a gasp but slightly strangled, escaped from Sally's mouth. "How…how could you possibly know that?" she asked scornfully, trying to mask her unease.

Sherlock shook his head. "Something brings it on. You're not like this by nature, Sally. I know."

Sherlock turned and began to pace the room. "There was once a girl, at a young age, probably primary or secondary school at the latest, who knew she wanted to be a detective. However, the other girls and boys in her class thought she was strange, odd, not quite right because of it. The desire to be a detective is one not normally found in girls, and it made her stand out in a way that no one else favored. For all her school years, she was labeled a freak because of her ambition, her drive to succeed and go for what she wanted."

Sherlock bent down until he was face to face with Sally. "But she did. She succeeded, and she showed them all." He smiled, a real smile, not a fake one like the ones he normally gave. "And she's here, in this room."

He stood back up and began to pace again. "But those children, the boys and girls who hurled insults and hurtful words like fists, they were still there, in the back of her mind. What could she do with them, with the spiderwebs and the echoes of words that still lingered, waiting for the light to burn out so they could thrive?"

He stopped, staring at the far wall. "That was when Sally Donovan met a curious individual; me, to be exact."

He turned to look at them. "I was brilliant. I knew what I wanted. I knew where to go to get it. And most of all, I was a freak of nature, just like her."

He continued his monologue. "She remembered all the hateful words, the spiteful insults thrown at her while she waited for her life to begin." His eyes were shining in the dim light of the room, unshed tears threatening to spill over. "And they just came spilling out."

He turned back to the wall. "The second day we met was the first day Sergeant Sally Donovan called me a freak." A single tear made a line down his pale white cheek. Silent drops began falling, making smooth lines across the skin. "It made her feel…powerful. All her life, she had been teased, abused, left alone during times when she needed someone to help. And to know that she was finally, finally in control, that she wasn't the freak anymore…it was a feeling that I'm sure was highly addictive."

Sherlock stopped talking for almost five minutes, just staring at the wall. He turned to Sally suddenly.

"It hurt. It always hurt." He said, shadows haunting his gaze. "It was like being ripped apart, slowly, into tiny, tiny pieces." Sally stared down, tears still dripping off her chin.

"But I forgive you."

Sally looked up. "What?" she said, unsure if she had heard correctly. "But…why? I was horrible. I remember how I felt when it was me…how I _still _feel, all these years later."

Sherlock smiled. "Because I had John. At first it was hard; I had no one to turn to. I didn't know Lestrade well enough, and the thought of going to Mycroft about my feelings was absurd. But then John came into my life. He didn't know it, but whenever he was there when you called me a freak, the pain was…tolerable. He made it better, just by being my…my friend."

Time seemed to stand still around them all.

**_I don't have friends._**

There was a strange, strange tenderness in Sherlock's gaze that no one in that room had ever seen before. "But you…" he said, sadness in his voice, "you didn't have anyone, Sally. You didn't have a friend."

This time, when Sherlock extended his hand, Sally took it.

And the room exploded.


	7. I'm Not Dead (But I Am Wounded)

John came around just moments after the explosion to see Greg standing nearby, looking around and swearing loudly.

Greg turned and rushed over to him. "John!" he gasped. "John! Are you okay?"

John stood. His shoulder twinged a bit, and he had a headache the size of the Thames in his head, but other than that he was unharmed. "Nah. 'm fine. Whrr's Sh'lock?" Okay, and he might have a concussion. Just a minor one, though, he was sure.

Greg shook his head. "I don't know. I thought he was standing over by Sally when…when whatever happened, happened." He frowned. "What was it, anyways?"

John shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Don' know. Prob'ee bomb. Be'er call Mycr'ft." he handed up his phone, miraculously having survived his fall.

A groan sounded from somewhere in the rubble, and Anderson's head poked up carefully between the bits of ceiling plaster. "Where's Sally?" were the first words out of his mouth.

Anderson and John began to dig, while Greg used John's phone to call Mycroft. John pried away layer after layer of debris, frantically searching for Sherlock, Anderson doing the same for Sally. John heard a moan from a nearby pile in the corner. He darted over, closely followed by Anderson. They both dug, until a pale, pale hand shot up from under.

"Jo-ohn…" the moan came again.

John and Anderson worked hard, and several chipped fingernails later they uncovered the consulting detective, lying directly on top of Sally, who was unconscious.

Sherlock did not look good. His face was paler than John had ever seen it, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He was bleeding slightly from a small wound in his head, but other than that looked unharmed. Why did he look so awful, then? John shook his head, dismissing it as over-concern.

"Hey, Mycroft? Is that you? Yeah, I'm alright, love, perfectly fine…yes, there was an explosion…yes, we probably need an ambulance and a bomb squad…"

John pulled Sherlock off of Sally and set him gently on the ground. He was conscious, but John didn't want to risk moving him too much. Anderson checked Sally for a pulse and was happy to find a strong beat. "She'll be fine." he muttered, unaware of the level of concern in his own voice.

Greg scoffed in the background. "God, you are so selfish…yes, I will bring you home a cake if you send them…This isn't funny, Mickey; I think your idiot of a brother might be hurt…"

John raised his eyebrows. Cake? _Home_? He snorted; so this was why Greg had been so accepting of him and Sherlock getting together. "You call him _Mickey_? Seriously, Greg?"

Greg's face heated and he put a hand over the phone. "Shut it, you. You call him Lock when you think no one else is around."

John frowned. "How the hell do you…wait, this is Mycroft we're talking about. He probably has cameras inside our bedroom, the fat git."

Anderson had taken in this whole conversation with a slightly bemused look on his face. "Wait…Our bedroom?" he gulped as Greg went back to his conversation. "You mean that you and the frea-Holmes are…"

Sherlock's eyes opened. "Shagging? Like rabbits."

John let out a yell, shocked. "Sherlock!" he gasped. "Don't say stuff like that, you git!"

Sherlock laughed, though he stopped and winced halfway through. "How's Sally? Is she alright?" he rasped.

"Yeah, she's fine; you took most of the ceiling with your gigantic body span." John said jokingly.

Sally gasped her way back to consciousness just moments after John spoke, eyes blown wide. "Wha…What the _bloody_ hell was that?!" she exclaimed loudly, quite shell-shocked.

"Bomb." Sherlock grunted grimly. John raised his eyebrows; it wasn't like Sherlock to speak in incomplete sentences. He must be in shock, John thought.

Sally looked over at him, _idiot _written all over her face. "No shit, Sherlock. I was asking more along the lines of why there was a bomb in Lestrade's fucking office!" she said angrily.

"Someone obviously wants to get rid of me." said Greg quietly.

Sherlock scoffed and winced at something, pulling his coat tighter around him. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Lestrade. Really, if someone wanted to 'get rid of you', as you put it, they would hardly…" Sherlock trailed off, staring at nothing. His grip on the edges of his coat slackened, his eyes glazing over.

John scooted across the floor towards his partner. "Sherlock?" he said concernedly. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor, splayed out on his back.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. He slid across so that he was right over the detective, and almost wished he hadn't. Sherlock's coat fell away as he hit the floor, revealing a dark scarlet stain in the middle of his previously white shirt.

"Oh my god." Sally whispered. "What happened to him?"

John swore under his breath. "Quick, we have to stop the bleeding. Anderson, see if you can get through the rubble and find a first-aid kit or any medical equipment you see. Go!" he yelled. Anderson jumped up and ran off into the destroyed halls of Scotland Yard.

John ripped the buttons off Sherlock's shirt. A jagged cut made it's way across his ribs and down to the top of his hip, just barely crossing over the scar made from the mugging. It was bleeding profusely, and he knew this one would definitely need hospital attention, though Sherlock would hate it.

"What caused it?" Sally asked in a worried voice. She began to look around, and found a long piece of sharp metal.

She turned to John. "John...I think...I think this is my fault." she said in a small voice. "When the bomb when off...Sherlock collapsed on top of me to protect me from the debris...I think...this would have gone straight through my heart if he hadn't..." she broke off, too upset to continue.

John sighed, aggravated. "For once he decides to be a hero and he gets himself seriously injured. You can't do anything by halves, can you, Sherlock?" He pulled his jumper over his head and pressed it over the wound, causing Sherlock to groan and awaken. "Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me, okay, love?" he said frantically. Dammit, where was Anderson with the supplies?

"John? John, I found a kit but I don't know if it has everything in it you need." Anderson said, sounding scared. He set it down by John.

John turned to Sally. "I need you to watch him. Keep him awake, don't let him lose consciousness. And hold down the jumper." Sally delicately pressed her hands over the material.

John prepared an IV as he heard Sally soothing him in the background. "Shh, Sherlock, it's okay, John's just over there, you're going to be fine…"

John took out a long strip of gauze and began to measure out lengths of it, along with some surgical tape. He mused that for the first time, Sally had called the man by his real name.

He heard a gasp. "John? John, he's not breathing!"


	8. I Would Follow (Ends Of The Earth)

John turned to Sally. "I need you to watch him. Keep him awake, don't let him lose consciousness. And hold down the jumper." Sally delicately pressed her hands over the material.

John prepared an IV as he heard Sally soothing him in the background. "Shh, Sherlock, it's okay, John's just over there, you're going to be fine…"

John took out a long strip of gauze and began to measure out lengths of it, along with some surgical tape. He mused that for the first time, Sally had called the man by his real name.

He heard a gasp. "John? John, he's not breathing!"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "Really, Sally…don't be so….dramatic. I am…" he broke off in a cough, "…perfectly fine."

John rolled his eyes and slid the IV gently into Sherlock's vein. "Only you, Sherlock, would call a gigantic rip in your side 'perfectly fine'." He ran his hands through the man's dark curls, trying to calm him. "Dammit, Greg, where's that bloody ambulance?"

Just as he spoke, John heard a siren in the distance. Greg looked at him pointedly. John sighed. "Sorry, mate. I'm just nervous…I don't want to lose him."

The ambulance sirens came closer and closer until they were right outside. Paramedics flooded in, examining those involved. Amazingly, no one was dead or seriously injured. Except Sherlock, John reminded himself.

He shook his head and smoothed a hand over Sherlock's pale forehead, wiping away asheen of sweat. "You daft bugger, why is it always you?"

Sherlock lolled his head onto one shoulder and looked up at John. "I…like the…suspense." he rasped sarcastically.

The medics rolled him gently onto a stretcher and carried him towards an ambulance. John followed closely. However, when he tried to follow the consulting detective in, he found his way barred by a rotund nurse with a look Sherlock would have described as 'constipated' on her face.

"And just where do you think _you _are going, young man?" she said forbiddingly in a deep voice.

"I'm a doctor, he's my flatmate, I have to look after him…" he babbled, trying not to let the ambulance get away without him.

"You are _not _going in there; not on my watch. I don't care if he is your flatmate or not, this man has been injured and needs medical attention!" she said loudly and bossily.

John gestured helplessly. "But…"

She glared, face full of disapproval. "No buts, sir!"

John's face darkened. He drew himself up to his full army posture. "Listen to me. That injured man is the love of my life, and I would follow him to the ends of the earth. If he wakes up and I am not there he will tear the hospital apart. Now you let me in that bloody fucking ambulance _right_ now or I swear to god I will punch you in the face."

The nurse stuttered, and Sally sidled up to her. "Best do as he says, ma'am. He has no qualms about hitting a lady."

The nurse looked nervous, but stayed stalwart. "I repeat, sir, I will not let you in this ambulance. It is a direct violation of protocol!" she stated firmly, not moving an inch.

John nodded coldly. "Very well then, miss. We'll do it my way."

And for the second time that evening, John punched a woman in the face.

Sally watched her fall sideways. "Good shot." she commented.

John turned to her. "Sally…" he said, regret in his voice.

Sally shook her head. "No, John. Don't worry about it. I deserved it, at that point; I was being a bitch. Now go and save Sherlock, and when he wakes up tell him hello from the freak." she said, smiling.

John nodded steadily. "You're a good cop, Sally. You really are."

As the nurse staggered to the side nursing a rather spectacular bloody nose, John jumped into the ambulance and closed the doors. The emergency vehicle took off like a shot towards St. Bart's as the army doctor in the back did his very best to stabilize and save the only man he had ever loved.


	9. We Both Lived (And Loved Each Other)

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Where was he? And what was that annoying beeping sound?

He rolled his aching head onto his shoulder and looked around. He was in a hospital room, private (no doubt due to his brother's many influences), and was hooked up to an IV. Bandages were wrapped around his ribs and chest, and he was wearing a thin hospital gown. He frowned. He hated hospital gowns, and _especially_ hated hospitals…why had John brought him here?

Speaking of John…where was his soldier? He carefully turned to the right and saw the man himself, sleeping in a hospital chair, snoring gently. Sherlock's face softened. The poor doctor looked like he had been up for _hours_. Had he really been looking after Sherlock for…Sherlock took a quick look at a calendar nearby…three days?

John's arm twitched and his eyes flew open. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. He practically leaped out of his chair to stand by his partner's bed. "How do you feel, Lock?" he asked tenderly, using Sherlock's pet name.

"Like someone hit me with a two-ton block of ceiling concrete."

John laughed drily. "Ironic, because that's basically what happened."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Really? Didn't expect that."

John looked concerned. "Are you sure you don't hurt too much? You usually don't speak in anything but complete sentences." He said worriedly.

Sherlock tried for a reassuring glance, but it came out more irritated. "I'm _fine, _John. Absolutely, positively fine." He decided to divert the subject. "How are the others? Are Lestrade and Sally okay?" he asked. John gave him one of his own signature looks. Sherlock sighed. "Oh, and Anderson, too, I suppose."

John nodded. "They're just fine. Sally had a bit of a scratch to the head; not deep, though, she'll recover right quick; and Anderson broke a finger."

Sherlock tried not to look too pleased with the last bit of information.

John sat down again and, pulling his chair up close to Sherlock's bed, leaned in to talk quietly to him. "Look, Sherlock, do you remember…anything? Anything at all from that day?"

Sherlock's gaze pierced John's. "You mean, do I remember forgiving Sally and telling all of you her life story? Yes, John, I do remember; quite well, in fact."

John coughed awkwardly. "Yes. Right. Well, just thought I'd ask….do you remember how you got injured at all?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I believe it had something to do with the ceiling crashing down near Sally."

John looked confused. "…But you weren't anywhere near her. How did you get smashed in the ribs and stabbed with a gigantic sharp bit of tile?" he asked.

Sherlock suddenly looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and tried to retain his dignity at what John was about to realize. "I said, it had to do with the ceiling crashing down on Sally."

Sherlock could practically see the wheels turning in John's head. All of a sudden, his eyes went completely wide. "You…she was…you saved Sally Donovan's life!" he said, almost a yell. It was more of an exclamation than a question.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose."

John laughed loudly, surprising Sherlock greatly. "You daft bugger. You forgive someone for calling you a freak after I've punched them and then you save their life." He shook his head in exasperated affection for the man, who was now looking quite embarrassed. "You don't do things by halves, do you? When you finally decide to play the hero, you just go all out."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I see that you dislike it when I do this…I will try harder to be a better partner to you."

John leaned forward and tipped Sherlock's chin up with a finger, looking him straight in those beautiful blue-green eyes. He kissed Sherlock's lips gently. "Are you kidding? That's what I love best about you, Sherlock." At that moment, Sherlock could have sworn John was looking into his soul. John placed his cheek gently against the consulting detective's. "Never change, Sherlock. Never change."

…

_Two Weeks Later_

John hopped cheerfully out of the taxi, turning back around to carefully help Sherlock out. Sherlock shook off his hand irritably. "John, I'm not a child. I'm perfectly able to walk to the door without being mollycoddled."

John grinned as Sherlock made his way to the front door of the building that housed their flat. Sherlock was fine; his attitude told John as much.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door. "Sherlock, dear!" she squealed, "It's so good to have you back!"

Sherlock smiled tightly as the landlady hugged him. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She followed him in as John shut the door behind him, fawning over the consulting detective. "I'm so glad you're alive, dear! Do you need anything? Some food…tea, maybe?"

Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B, and, without turning around, said "Some silence right now would be absolutely marvelous, Mrs. Hudson. Good day."

The door swung shut behind him. Mrs. Hudson watched him go with a sad look on her face. "He's so tense, John. Do you think he'll ever recover?"

John laughed and patted Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock we're talking about. He _is _recovered; quite honestly, I would be much more worried if he _wasn't_ showing an attitude." He thought for a moment. "If it will make you feel better, I'm sure he'd love some tea."

Mrs. Hudson's face brightened. "I'll get right on it, dear." She bustled off to her kitchen, leaving John to climb the stairs and hope that Sherlock wasn't already trying to think of ten ways to blow up the flat.

However, when he got in, Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen, or the living room. He wandered about for a bit, reading and then checking his blog, thinking maybe Sherlock needed a bit of alone time.

After two hours, he got a bit worried. Though Sherlock had told him when they first met that there were long stretches of time when he didn't speak, there had never been a time before this when Sherlock was so quiet for so long. And hadn't blown anything up.

John walked as quietly as he could over towards his room and tried the door handle. Surprisingly, it was open. He pushed it open to see Sherlock lying on his bed, facing away from him towards the wall. He had his shirt and trousers off, wearing only a pair of black silk pants.

He tiptoed around the bed so that he could see Sherlock's face, thinking that the consulting detective was asleep. However, Sherlock wasn't asleep; he was crying.

"Oh, Sherlock." John said sadly. He smiled down at his partner, who tried to hide his tear-stained face, to no avail.

John sat down and pulled Sherlock over to him. Sherlock snuggled into his side, tears still running down his face. He sniffed softly. "I'm sorry to be such a bother, John. I don't even know why this is happening…this reaction to…everything…"

He trailed off and tensed up as John shifted. He relaxed when he realized that John was just pulling him closer. John ran a hand tenderly through the detective's curls. "It's a common reaction to something as life-threatening as what you went through. I had the same thing when I got shot." He rocked Sherlock gently, and after a bit changed positions so that they were lying lengthwise on the bed and Sherlock's head rested on his chest.

The two of them, consulting detective and army doctor, fell asleep just like that, entwined in each other's arms. Mrs. Hudson came up with the tea not long after they dozed off and saw them, lying together on the bed, sleeping in a tangle of arms and legs and souls and hearts. "I always knew it." She whispered to herself, and went back downstairs to leave the two to their nap.

Sometime in the early hours of the next morning, John woke up. He shifted slightly, stretching his muscles and accidently bumping Sherlock, whose face contorted into a look of sheet happiness and he stretched like a cat. Sherlock's eyes opened. "Good morning, John."

John leaned down and kissed him. "Good morning, Sherlock."

They stayed like that for some time, stretched out together on the bed, holding each other. Eventually, John had to get up for work, and Sherlock for a case, and the bed was cold…but even when they were apart, they were still entwined.

Sherlock was John's spontaneity, and John…John was Sherlock's heart. They complimented each other. They raised each other up and brought each other down. They yelled. They cried. They laughed. They blew things up. They chased criminals. They loved each other.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson lived.

_The End_

* * *

A/N: Where should I start? This fic was not the first fic I wrote; however, it was the first I finished. I cried writing this, I laughed writing this, I even yelled while writing it (though mostly at my cat for lying on the keyboard when I was trying to write). Writing this felt like the best high in the world. I'm so, so grateful to every single reviewer, follower, anyone who even just took the time to read it *offers all of the aforementioned a cookie*. I wish I never had to end it, but sadly, all good things must come to an end. I will definitely be writing several more fics in the future, and I hope to do a companion fic to this, dealing with Sherlock's past and why he was so understanding of Sally Donovan. So, in conclusion, thank you, everyone; watch for the companion fic; and keep believing in Sherlock Holmes!

Ta,

-Anonymoustache


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